My hands were trembling, but I forced myself to steady them so I wouldn’t drop the treasure I had just dug out of an old box. Tears blurred my vision as I turned the thing over in my hands, feeling it for the first time since I had put it away, wiping away months of dust. My fingers found a tiny key, and I turned it once, twice, thrice. A haunting melody emanated from the now slightly vibrating object, and I found myself unconsciously mouthing the lyrics that fit that tune.
'Chris? Are you okay? What did you find? Say something!'
Their voices seemed so distant and unimportant, like words from a long-forgotten childhood song. I let the tears fall and my vision cleared, finally letting me see the old, shattered snow globe. It had been a gift from my mother when I was a little girl of eight, but recent events had made me hide the precious item from myself.
I couldn’t believe I’d found it again. I couldn’t believe that one little snow globe could remind me of the pain, the reality, of loss.
Eight years ago, I remember walking through a large department store (Wal-mart, maybe; I can’t say for sure now.) and seeing something on sale that I really wanted.
If I were like most children, that thing might’ve been a doll, or an action figure, or a bicycle. But for me, the thing I wanted most that day had been a snow globe.
It was decorated with waves and reefs, and the centerpiece was an orca and its child, each riding separate waves. I reached out and picked up the one that was set out on display. I marveled at its simple beauty, liking the way it felt in my small hands. I found a tiny key and turned it three times. It played a familiar tune, one I had heard but didn’t know the name of. I shook it, and watched the glitter float around the killer whales. I was hypnotized.
My mother must’ve seen me, because I felt a long-nailed hand fall on my shoulder, and I heard her say, “You really like it, don’t you?”
I could only nod, I was so mesmerized. “Then you can have one.”
That brought me out of my reverie. “Really, Mom? Can I really?”
She laughed at me and smiled.
From that day on, that snow globe became one of my most valued possessions. I kept it on the trunk that served as my nightstand, and, when I had nothing else to do, I’d just listen to the song over and over.
I eventually learned that the song was called “’Til the End of Time”, and I believed then (and still do now) that it must’ve been some sort of love song. I didn’t care all that much; I loved it all the same, if not more.
At the time, there were seven people living in our humble three-bedroom house, since my brother was ‘really sick‘, and had moved in with us so we could help take care of him and his three children. It was not a happy time--four children, three adults, a dog, a parakeet, a hamster, and a guinea pig didn’t mix well in such close quarters. Because Mom said I had to be nice to them since they were our guests, I had to give my room to my niece and start sharing a room with my mother. I didn’t mind at all, since her bed was a queen-size; besides, I only ever got to talk to her right before we went to bed, because she was always busy with my niece, my nephews, or my brother. Every night, before we turned out the lights, I’d wind up my snow globe and we’d listen to “Til the End of Time” until we fell asleep.
Around that time, Mom started getting ‘really sick‘, too. Dad had to work a lot to support all of us, and was rarely around. Brother (I never called him by his name, which was Johnnie) was always at the hospital, or the doctor’s office, or lying on the couch too weak to move. Us kids had to go to school, so that left my poor Mom to take care of the housework. She was already ‘sick’ (I later learned that she had breast cancer), and taking care of six other people and four pets couldn’t have been helping. Soon, she began going to the hospital about as often as my brother. I’d feel so alone in that large bed, and I’d cradle the phone in my arms at night, waiting for her to call, which she did every night she could. She’d always tell me not to worry, that everything would be fine.
And she’d always ask me to wind up the snow globe for her before she hung up. She told me she’d be able to hear it even if she was at the hospital. Being a child, I believed her, and wound it up again and again until I fell asleep winding it up.
After awhile, she got a little better, but I guess that came with a price--my brother got worse.
And worse.
And worse.
Soon, one of his many doctors told us that he wouldn’t live much longer, five years at most. That put a lot of strain on everyone at home; Dad was depressed, Mom was depressed, Brother was really depressed, and that it turn put my nephews, my niece, and I on edge.
The four of us began fighting more often that usual. During one of those fights, James, the younger of my nephews, went into my room (then Jessica’s room) and began breaking things. She began screaming and throwing things at him, and the fight somehow bled into the hallway and then into Mom’s room. We were home alone, since Dad was at work (as usual), Mom was at the store (JohnE, my elder nephew, had gone with her), and Brother was at the hospital. I was sitting on my side of the bed reading and otherwise not getting involved. That didn’t last long, though--James had come over to my ‘nightstand’ and started grabbing ‘ammunition’. The first thing he picked up was my snow globe.
I immediately got involved, trying to get my greatest possession away from his catapulting hands.
“Get your hands off of that!” I screamed.
“Why?! Grandma said everything you have is half ours, so it’s half mine to throw!” he shouted back, pushing me away.
I didn’t give up. “But Mom bought that specially for me, and if anyone’s, it’s half HERS! Put it down! Put it down now!!!”
“Fine, I will!” With that, cocked back his arm and threw my snow globe to the hardwood floor with all his might. Glass, water, glitter, and ceramic pieces went flying everywhere. I cried out in agony. I faintly remember Jessica coming over there to drag her younger brother from the room while muttering apologies, but I couldn’t hear her over my own sobs.
When Mom and Dad returned, the mess was still there; Dad had taught me to never try to pick up broken glass by myself. All three of us got yelled at (James for breaking it, Jessica for ‘starting it’, and me because Jessica and James would’ve complained about how ‘unfair’ it was if they didn’t), and Dad was going to throw it away. I grabbed his arm, crying.
“Please don’t! James broke it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want it!”
My parent exchanged glances, and a million silent words must’ve passed between them in that look. In the end, I was allowed to keep what was left of my precious snow globe because I couldn‘t bear to lose it. At the time, I was eleven.
In December of my twelfth year, I learned what it really meant to lose something. My brother finally succumbed to whatever it was that had been killing him. I found comfort in my mother and my ‘snow globe’ during that time.
Our household shrunk down to three, a dog, and a parakeet in a matter of weeks after that. That meant Mom didn’t have to work as hard.
But it also made her sad and lonely. It wasn’t long before she was sick again. We’d still talk, but whenever I made her laugh, she’d begin to cough, and sometimes she coughed so hard I was worried she’d spit out chunks of her lungs when she was done.
I got my room back, but that didn’t stop me from going to her room every night and winding up my shattered ghost of a snow globe. We’d listen to the song together, say our goodnights, and she’d go to sleep while I went to my own room and wound it up again.
Mom continued to get worse and worse, and I feared for her. She was becoming much like my brother had been; always sick, too tired to move, in the hospital all the time. Still, I held out hope. Every night, I’d still wind up that snow globe and listen to “’Til the End of Time”, only now an oxygen machine and my mother’s hacking played in the background.
Then, in the eighth grade, my world came crashing down.
She went into the hospital and had to be put on a ventilator, even though the doctors had told us before that she’d never be able to be taken off if she was ever put on one. Out of habit, I cradled the phone in my arms, waiting for the phone calls that would never come again, but I couldn’t bear to wind up my snow globe.
Days turned into weeks, and she was still in the hospital. Because Dad had to work, sick wife and dependant child or not, the government said I had to go live with my grandmother. In short, I hated it there. One of the things that made my stay there less hellish was that snow globe; I had brought it with me, and just having it, even if I wasn’t going to wind it up, comforted me.
When I finally got back home, it wasn’t because Mom had gotten better; it was because Dad’s schedule had him home often enough for me to go back. Every night after I got home, I’d wind up my snow globe and listen to it, even though I knew Mom couldn’t hear it…or much of anything.
Weeks became months, and I realized she was ‘down for the count’: she’d never be coming home again, I’d never hear her voice again, she’d never hear our song again. She was basically a lump of flesh on a bed, no life or soul left.
I managed to force my way through the first few weeks of ninth grade, feeling as empty as Mom’s one good eye looked. On September Ninth, 2005, Dad finally got up the courage to terminate her life support. When I heard, I went numb. One of the first things I can remember doing was going to my room, finding that old snow globe, and playing our song for the last time before I promptly found a box and shoved it to the bottom, piling some old school papers and other worthless junk items on top. I meant to never take it out again.
By the time the school year was over, I had completely forgotten about that box and the treasure it contained. It was only during the summer that I found it, and only then because of the sheer boredom that my friends and I felt one lazy summer afternoon.
Now it just sits on the coffee table in the living room, collecting dust. Whenever I’m feeling particularly lonely, though, I sit on the couch, reach forward, pick it up, and turn the key once, twice, thrice. I hold that old shattered, broken snow globe and listen to that beautiful song, mouthing the lyrics that Mom and I made up for the tune one boring rainy day. Sometimes a tear or two rolls down my cheek, but the tears are getting few and far between. The wounds are starting to heal at last, but I know that the scars will be there “’Til the End of Time”.
